


And the Rockets' Red Glare

by Arukou



Series: Tumblr Archive [14]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Veterans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arukou/pseuds/Arukou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam likes to think he's got it together, that he knows his own limits. But the Fourth is one thing that gets to him every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Rockets' Red Glare

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/post/123157981786/back-when-he-first-woke-up-the-sound-of).

Back when he first woke up, the sound of firecrackers leading up to the Fourth had jarred Steve badly, but Phil had taken him aside and explained how fireworks were commercially available for just about anyone now, and even if a state outlawed them, a quick hop to the neighboring state quickly remedied that situation. Steve gritted his teeth and put up with the sharp cracking and explosive screaming echoing in the streets of New York. It wasn’t so bad. He was fine. Really. The next year, he barely flinched with each snapping explosion.

But now, holed up in a motel in Cincinnati on June 25th, he can’t help but notice the way Sam twitches every time someone sets off a string of blackjacks.

“Gets earlier every year,” Sam mutters, and sequesters himself in the bathroom. He doesn’t come out for hours, even though the shower stops running after the first forty-five minutes. Steve stares at the door, flinching when another bottle rocket pops somewhere over the suburbs, but he’s been awake for nearly forty hours and his body is telling him that even he needs to sleep soon. 

At last he knocks on the bathroom door and says, “Sam, I’m turning in. Do you…do you need anything?”

For several seconds, there’s no answer, and then Sam says, “Nah, man. Just…get some shuteye.”

Steve sighs, hand pressed to the wood of the door, but then he turns and crawls into bed, asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow.

The next day, they head out again, their 2003 Chevy SUV coughing as it lurches along, its exhaust system nearly shot. It’s taken them 3,000 miles so far, but the odometer was already passing 150,000 when they picked it up. Steve has a feeling they’ll be holding a small funeral for it soon.

Sam doesn’t mention his retreat last night, and Steve doesn’t bring it up either. The radio is tuned into a staticky country station and Tim McGraw croons at them until Sam snorts in disgust and flips the dial. “Stupid, ancient piece of crap. Wish I could hook up my iPod.”

“Classical?” Steve ventures after a moment, already fiddling with the dial.

“Nah man. Just turn it off. I’ll sing at you.”

“Not sure if I want to hear a falcon screeching at me.”

“I sing like a goddamned angel. You love it.”

Some of the tension in Steve’s shoulders drains out, and he grins at Sam, tentatively placing a hand on his knee. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I do.”

The SUV craps out in Columbia, Kentucky; a great plume of black smoke billowing into the evening sky is its dying breath. Steve sighs and stares down at his phone and the tip from Natasha that puts Bucky’s last likely location just outside of Knoxville. He’d been hoping to power through the night and catch up to him, but now they’re going to be three steps behind again instead of just one.

“Hey man,” Sam says, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezing, “we’ll get him. You know we will.”

Just as Steve’s opening his mouth to say something, a bottle rocket screams into the night and Sam hits the ground, his belly pressed to the warm summer pavement. Steve stares dumbstruck for a moment and then crouches next to him, speaking lowly. “Sam, it’s just a firework. It’s just some asshole. It’s ok. No one’s firing on us.”

For a long, breathless second, Sam remains motionless, his eyes wide and sweat trickling down his brow. Then he shudders once and rolls onto his side, curling into himself. Steve hesitates before reaching down and pulling him up, pressing his face into the warm cotton of his shirt.

“Come on. I’ll call Triple A, and then we can find a motel and figure out what we’re gonna do about the transportation situation.” He pauses a moment, staring up at the pink and blue clouds stretched over the sunset. “You can sing at me some more, and I’ll pretend I like it.”

Sam snorts weakly into Steve’s chest, but he nods and pushes away after a moment. “Yeah, let’s…let’s get off the street.” Even as Steve gets on the phone and makes the necessary calls, Sam remains coiled, his shoulders wound up around his ears and his fists clenched. 

Out in the midwest, the fireworks noise is much worse than it ever was in New York or DC. The ordinances here are looser, and the people much more willing to express their patriotism via explosive. It seems hardly a minute passes without the pop and crackle of cheap fireworks. Steve grits his teeth and puts an arm around Sam’s shoulders, squeezing tightly while the Triple A rep drones on.

Eventually they wind up in a motel down the road from the courthouse. The moment they’re inside, Sam grabs Steve by the wrist and hauls him into the bathroom, pressing him up against the wall. There’s something urgent in his movements, the way he strips Steve’s shirt off and works frantically at his fly.

“Hey, hey,” Steve says, trying to catch his frenzied hands. Sam acquiesces after a moment, forehead pressed to Steve’s shoulder. He’s panting, and that same coating of fear sweat is still trickling down his brow. “You’re ok. You’re ok,” Steve whispers, running his fingers up and down Sam’s arms.

“Definitely not ok,” Sam mutters, and goes back to shucking Steve’s pants. Steve lets him, stepping out of his jeans and underwear before taking Sam by the elbows and pulling him under the shower, stripping away his clothes and turning the water on almost blisteringly hot.

Their lovemaking is frantic, hardly any of Sam’s usual finesse and grace, and Steve wishes there was more he could do. Afterward, standing under the spray as the water goes tepid, Sam quivers in his arms, barely responding as Steve shampoos his hair and soaps him down. 

Once he’s rinsed, Sam gently pushes Steve out of the shower, expression apologetic. “You go on. I’ll…I’ll be out in a bit.”

“Sam?”

“Just go, Steve.”

He’s relieved when Sam emerges an hour later, eyes downcast and body shivering. He tucks himself in against Steve’s chest and turns out the lights, but if either of them sleep, it’s only in fits and starts.

The next day, they walk to one of the car dealerships in town and drive away in a 1999 Ford sedan, the odometer tipped at 120,000 miles. “Maybe she’ll last us until we find Bucky,” Steve says, though even his optimism has waned after two months on the road.

Sam hums, but he’s staring out the window, his eyes distant, knuckle pressed against his lips. He’s silent until they hit the Tennessee border, and then he’s pulling out the phone, calling first Natasha and then Tony.

“Yeah. Our car died. We’re probably two days behind him again. Yeah. Any information you can give us. It’d be a big help. Thanks, Tony. No, we do not need the suit. No, really. We’re trying to be subtle, and you’re about the least subtle human being on the planet. Yeah. Bye.”

Steve keeps one ear on the conversation and watches Sam from the corner of his eye whenever he has a chance. Sam’s fiddling with the phone, thumbs flying across the screen, but when he catches Steve watching, he gives him a weak smile. “I’m ok, Steve,” he says, but his tone lacks conviction.

“Try and get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when we hit Knoxville.” Sam nods and closes his eyes, forehead pressed against the glass. Steve has a feeling he doesn’t sleep a wink, but maybe even just resting his eyes will help.

They pull over at a mall in Knoxville and eat greasy foodcourt fare, and in the crowd, voices surrounding them, Sam seems to regain some of his spirit. At the very least, he smears marinara sauce on Steve’s nose, so he can’t be completely out of it.

Steve excuses himself to go clean up, but pauses on the return journey, staring at a display in the window of a music store. After a moment, he straightens up and marches in, finds a clerk and grills them. Fifteen minutes later, purchase safely in hand, Steve returns to the foodcourt, where Sam is now sitting at attention, a frown dressing his features.

“Dude, what the fuck? Did you fall in or something? Jesus Christ, I thought I had a kidnapping on my hands. Thought I was gonna have to go find Bucky and fight him for you.”

“I’m sorry. I had something I needed to buy.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned it beforehand?”

“Impulse buy,” Steve replies, and reaches across the table to catch Sam’s hand. He squeezes and doesn’t let go until Sam squeezes back. “Sorry,” he says again. And because that seems inadequate, he also leans across the table to peck Sam’s lips.

“Whatever, man. Next time, I will totally have them put out a lost child announcement for you. ‘The guardian of Steve Rogers is waiting for him at the customer service counter. Steve is six foot two, blonde, and dumb as a post. If you find Steve, please bring him to the customer service counter.’“

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

After lunch, he and Sam briefly debate whether they should take off again in the same direction and drive until they hit Charlotte, but Sam thinks it’d be better to wait for intelligence from Natasha. They check into a motel not too far from the mall.

Sam is waiting behind Steve while he pays when another firecracker goes off. Sam hits the deck, the same way he did yesterday, and Steve flinches back from the counter, already turning. Sam gets a hold of himself quicker this time, rising before Steve can help him, but he’s still quivering, eyes darting nervously.

“Combat vets?” asks the clerk, eyeing them both.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve says, hating the way his voice shakes. “Not a good time of year.”

The clerk glances down at Steve’s credit card and then slides it back across the counter. “On the house,” she says, grabbing a set of keys from the hooks behind her. “You guys get some rest.”

“Are you sure…?”

“My brother was in Iraq. He goes camping in the woods for three weeks this time of year. We don’t hear from him until July 6th. Seriously. It’s fine.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve says, palming the keys. “I…We really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. Thank you for your service.”

Steve and Sam retreat to their room and Sam almost immediately heads for the bathroom, but Steve catches his wrist. “Hey,” he says, squeezing gently. “I got you something.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, but he waits, watching as Steve grabs the plastic bag from the mall. He pulls out a plastic package and hands it to Sam. “Noise canceling headphones,” he says, sticking his hands in his pocket. “Clerk said they work even when you’re not listening to music.”

Staring down at the package, Sam shivers once, full body, and then tosses it on the bed, grabbing Steve by the collar and reeling him in to kiss him hard. He doesn’t let go for a long time, and when he finally lets Steve stagger back, both of them are panting.

“You,” he says, pointing a finger, “are too damn sweet.” Then he’s got his pocket knife out and is already working open the packaging. Steve watches with a fond expression as Sam carefully extracts the headphones and hooks them up to his iPod, keying up Aretha Franklin. He slips them over his ears and flops onto the bed, sighing and going boneless almost immediately, eyes closing in bliss. “Fuck, the sound quality is amazing.”

“Can you hear me?” Steve asks, not even ashamed of the dopey grin tugging at his mouth. Sam doesn’t respond, so Steve tries again, a little louder. Still nothing. He tries a third time, nearly a shout, but still nothing.

After a moment, Sam opens his eyes and holds out his hand, smile soft and warm. Steve takes his hand and falls down onto the bed next to him, drawing close until his nose is pressed into Sam’s collarbone.

“Thanks, man,” Sam says, and then closes his eyes again. Outside the hotel room, the bang of a firecracker echoes through the streets. Sam doesn’t even twitch.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fanfiction and nerdery, you can find me [here](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/)


End file.
